


What Happened to the Blue Jimmy

by der_tanzer



Series: Accidents of Fate [1]
Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-11
Updated: 2010-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine job goes about as well as usual.  Murray needs comforting and Cody needs a new car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happened to the Blue Jimmy

**Author's Note:**

> Gen, but can be read as slash if you prefer. PG-13 for language and blood.  
> Pain and angst, sort of poignant. No character death, unless you count the Jimmy.

"Are you sure about that tracking device?" Nick asked, settling a rather large metal case on Murray's skinny thighs.

"Oh, yes. I've tested it extensively and it's so far past state of the art, we won't have any trouble finding that transponder."

"I'm sure we won't. But this thing weighs a ton. Are you sure you can hold onto it for however long it takes?"

"Sure, I'll be fine. I just need that other piece over there."

Nick gave him the last part, which was nearly the size of a breadbox, and Murray balanced it on top of the larger one, letting it rest against his chest. The dials and gauges were on top, making it easy to monitor, and he only needed a little help plugging the two components together, then adding the antenna. As an afterthought, he reached for the shoulder strap behind him, but without being able to twist his body, even his long arm wouldn't reach.

"Oh, dang it. Now I can't fasten my seatbelt."

"It'll be okay. Cody's a careful driver."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks for letting me ride up front, though, Nick. I'd never be able to wrangle all this stuff in the back."

"It's no big deal. Now, have you got everything?"

"I think so. Let me check real quick." He went over the equipment one last time while Nick watched, ready to go back to the boat if Murray said he needed anything else. "No, I'm all set. Where's Cody?"

"Right here. Climb in, Nick. That smuggler's not sitting still."

Nick closed Murray's door and went around the other side. He opened the driver's door and pushed the front seat forward to get in back. Murray was right, it would have been a nightmare squeezing all the equipment back there. But as Cody slid behind the wheel and fastened his own seatbelt, he couldn't help noticing, as Nick had, that the gear looked awfully heavy on Murray's broomstick legs.

They drove down to the warehouse where the stolen electronics were being stored and Cody parked two blocks away. A truck arrived with one of Murray's planted transponders and the signal came in loud and clear. They'd been over here last night putting tails on every truck that came in so they could follow one out in daylight and see where it went. Quinlan was in on it for a change, waiting to hear what they learned so he could jump in and make the arrests. There was even a very slight chance that the detectives might get credit.

"There they go," Cody said unnecessarily when the truck pulled out. "Have you got it, Boz?"

"Oh yes. I've got a quarter mile range on this thing, but you'd better keep them in sight."

That was simple enough. Cody stayed back two blocks and one lane over, the truck an easy target in the light morning traffic. They were almost downtown before the driver noticed he was being tailed and started making an effort to shake them. He slid through a couple of yellow lights, but Cody had no trouble picking him up again on the green. The fully loaded, box-shaped truck was just no match for the faster Jimmy and Cody's driving skills.

They were a block and a half behind when the truck eased into a left turn lane and skittered through the red light. Cody gunned the motor and got up to the light just as the turn arrow went green. He hardly had to slow down before stepping on the gas and whipping the wheel hard to the left. The truck was still in sight and Murray was saying something about the signal strength. Nick was leaning between their seats, his arms around the back of Cody's so he could see what was going on, and that made him the first one to see what was coming. An F-150 ran the red light that protected their left turn and broadsided the Jimmy even as Nick shouted a warning, his arms clenching instinctively on the seat.

Cody tried to turn with the impact, tried to escape the worst of it, and succeeded only in hitting a stopped car head on. His head hit the steering wheel and the last thing he heard amidst the screeching brakes and rending steel was Murray's pain-filled shriek.

Nick opened his eyes not thinking that any time had passed, but without any memory of the actual crash. The adrenaline rush had frozen his muscles and he had a hard time letting go of the seat back, until a low groan from Cody brought a second burst of energy. He tried to force his way between the seats, knowing he couldn't move them, but everything was deformed by the impact and he just couldn't fit. The components shifted without freeing Murray's body and only one had any give. But that was in the wrong direction, pushing back into Murray's chest. Nick gave up getting through and just leaned over Cody's shoulder, checking to see that he was breathing. Cody stirred, whispering his name, and Nick patted his cheek lightly.

"Okay, buddy. You're okay. You hear me? You're okay."

"I'm okay," Cody parroted back. "What about Murray? Why don't I hear…"

"He's okay," Nick said, hoping desperately that it was true. "You just hold still, okay? You hit your head pretty hard."

"Seat belt didn't help much, did it?"

"Kept you from going through the windshield." He could have mentioned that it would have helped more if Cody had worn the shoulder strap instead of tucking it under his arm, but this wasn't the time. He could bring that up after they were out of the car. But first he had to check on Murray and see if he'd lied.

"Hey, Boz," he said, his tone calm but forceful. There was no response and he shifted his body more that way, careful not to put any pressure on anything that was touching Murray. "Hey, can you hear me? Murray? Boz? Come on, man."

"Is he awake?" Cody asked fearfully. "Murray, talk to us, buddy." He tried to turn and was stopped by a stabbing pain in his ribs. It was then that he became aware of a larger pain in his left arm, and his voice cracked when he spoke again. "Nick, we're in trouble here. I think I'm hurt and Murray's not talking. You need to get help. Can you get out?"

"Yeah, I think so. But I don't want to leave you."

"You have to, Nick. You have to get us help." He turned his head as far as he could, his blue eyes glazed and unfocused, and tried to reach back with his right hand. Nick caught it and squeezed it hard for a few seconds, then wrapped Cody's fingers around Murray's limp left hand.

"I'll see what I can do. You guys hang on."

The frame was bent and he couldn't get the tailgate down, but the plastic window above it gave under two or three forceful kicks. He climbed over the gate and slid to his knees, dizzy and short of breath, but determined to help his friends. It was an immense relief to hear sirens bearing down on them, and then someone was crouching beside him, holding his arm.

"Are you okay, man?"

"Yeah, but my friends are hurt. Give me a hand. I need to get around to the passenger side and check on my friend."

"I called for an ambulance. They'll be here in a minute and your friends will be fine."

"I know, but I need to be there until then. Help me or don't, but I know what I have to do." He tried to wrench his arm away and the stranger held on. But he also gave in to Nick's determination and helped him stand. He put his arm around Nick's waist and supported him, walking slowly up to the crumpled door of the Jimmy. The truck grille was still partly imbedded, but Nick was able to lean awkwardly through the shattered window and get a better look at Murray's still form. He didn't like what he saw.

The dashboard was shoved back into the passenger space, more on this side than the other, and Murray was pinned by the smashed jumble of electronics that dug into his legs and upper body. There was blood on his shirt and oozing from the torn thighs of his jeans. A small trickle ran from the corner of his mouth and Nick couldn't even find his glasses. He touched Murray's throat lightly, then more firmly, feeling for his pulse. It was hard to find, fast and thready, but enough to comfort Nick a little.

"Nick, are you there?" Cody called, his voice as weak as Murray's pulse. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he—he'll be fine. You stay calm, Cody. Don't get excited. Help's on the way."

When the rescue crews rolled in they all seemed to get there at once. A paramedic went to Cody's window and began a cursory exam while another took Nick's arm and guided him away from the Jimmy.

"Come with me, sir, and let's have a look at you."

"No, I'm okay. Go check on Murray. He's the one who's hurt."

"Someone's looking at him right now. Let's just worry about you right now, okay? Can you tell me where you're hurt?"

"No, not really. My shoulders, I guess. Please, just take care of my friends. Cody was unconscious—he hit his head really hard. And Murray…"

"They're taking care of your friends, I promise. Here, follow my finger with your eyes."

Nick obeyed, but as soon as the medic moved on to taking his blood pressure, he started leaning around to better see the wreck. The back of the ambulance was facing Cody's side of the car, and he watched while they put a neck brace on his friend and strapped him to a short backboard. They laid him on a gurney and brought him to the ambulance where Nick could at least speak to him while they started IVs and checked Cody's eyes.

"You okay, Nick?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. How's your head, man? Can you see straight?"

"Yeah. Straight as before, at least. Jeez, what a mess. Ow, damn it," he snapped as a needle pierced his arm.

"How was Murray? You were holding his hand, did he say anything?"

"He never moved. I think he's really hurt, Nick. I tried—I wanted to stay with him but they wouldn't let me."

"We need to get you to the hospital for x-rays, Mr. Allen. It feels like you've got some cracked ribs and we need to check for internal injuries."

"But what about Murray? We can't leave him here all alone."

"He's not alone, sir. Those men over there are helping him right now."

"But they're strangers," Nick protested. "I'm not really hurt. Let me stay."

"You'd just get in the way. The best thing you can do for your friend is clear out and give us fewer civilians to worry about."

"Fuck," he muttered, turning to Cody for help. But Cody's eyes were closed and he had nothing to contribute. Nick stopped fighting then. If he couldn't do anything for Murray, he could at least go with Cody and keep watch over him.

The last thing he heard as the ambulance doors were closing was a medic shouting for more help.

There were four vehicles involved in the wreck, including the Jimmy, the New Yorker that they'd hit head on, the F-150 that caused it, and the Econoline that rear-ended the truck. The scene was havoc, with two firefighters trying to get Murray out of the Jimmy while the pickup driver lay over his steering wheel with blood running out his ears. The Econoline was full of teenagers, eight of them riding unrestrained in the back, and they'd come to rest against the front seats in a pile of broken arms and legs, unable to untangle themselves and screaming for help.

That was the state of affairs when Quinlan rolled up, ready to take charge from the patrol officer who was trying to oversee the rescue efforts and direct traffic. He sent the patrolman to get cones and straighten out the traffic situation while he got up to speed on the situation.

"Where's the rest of the fire department?" he asked the first paramedic he saw. "Why aren't they getting these people out of here?"

"There's a fire at the cannery. This one truck was all we could spare. They have injuries at the fire, too."

"Shit. How many do we have here?"

"A lot. Nine in the van, counting the driver; one in the pickup—he's probably a goner; two minor injuries in the Chrysler, and one major in the GMC. That's the tough one. He's buried under a pile of electrical crap and we're going to have to open that truck up like a tin can."

"Electrical crap? In a GMC? Show me."

"I'm getting the jaws of life now. Help me with the compressor." He opened one of the compartments in the rescue squad and pulled out the jaws. Quinlan grabbed the air compressor and followed him into the heart of the wreck, their feet crunching over broken glass and kicking shards of chrome out of the way.

When they reached the Jimmy, one paramedic was crouched beside it, taking Murray's vitals and shaking his head. The man who'd brought Quinlan over put down his equipment and spoke, low and urgent.

"How's he doing, Tom?"

"Not good. We gotta get him out of here but I don't know how. I tried to start an IV but I can't get a vein in this arm. I can barely reach him with this truck in the way. What's the status on the driver?"

"Squad twenty-six is working on him. There's a tow truck standing by to clear it as soon as they get him out."

"They better work fast. Jack, we need to open this thing up quick, but he needs fluids, first. What do you think we should do?"

"Is he conscious? Have you gotten any response at all?"

"No," Tom said shortly. "Some reaction to painful stimuli but that's it. We're gonna lose him if we don't get him out of there."

"Do we even know his name?"

"Bozinsky," Quinlan said, surprising them both. "Murray Bozinsky."

"You know him?" asked Jack. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"I know him. Let me try."

Tom stepped back, figuring there was nothing to lose by giving him a chance. Jack was assembling the jaws and he went to help, keeping his hands busy, at least. Quinlan leaned in the window and slapped Murray's cheeks lightly. They already had the neck brace on him so it wasn't too dangerous, and he was rewarded by a low moan.

"Hey, Bozinsky, wake up," he growled, his familiar voice cutting through the pain-filled haze that Murray hid behind. "Come on, geek-o. You don't want to go like this."

Tom looked at Jack and mouthed _geek-o?_ Clearly they weren't close friends, but if it got the job done, it didn't matter.

"Do you hear me, nerd boy? Come on, give me some kind of sign." He touched Murray's cheek again, not slapping this time. The normally guileless eyes were closed, dark bruises forming around both. It suddenly occurred to Quinlan, looking at the metal cases imbedded between Murray's ribs and in the thin muscle of his legs, blood soaking his clothes and pooling on the seat, that he was quite possibly looking at a dying man. "You hear me, Bozinsky? Come on, I need you to tell me what happened here. We'll never get it straightened out if you don't give me the two hour version."

Murray groaned softly, his head twitching the slightest bit, and Quinlan was encouraged.

"How're you guys doing with that thing?" he called over his shoulder.

"It's about ready, but we need to get him stabilized before we start tearing into the car."

"Then let's get on that. He's almost with us, if you need him."

"Let's see what we can do," Tom agreed, and Quinlan knew from his tone that he and Murray were the only ones really trying. The medics were giving up.

Jack opened the drug box and got a new IV kit. Ted squeezed out of the way as best he could, wedging his body between the crumpled fender of the Jimmy and the smashed grille of the Ford. He watched while Jack tied on a tourniquet and tried unsuccessfully to raise a vein.

"Mr. Bozinsky, can you make a fist?" he asked in that tone that was more of an order than a question. "Come on, sir. Just make a fist for me."

He held Murray's arm straight, letting the window ledge support it, his long sleeve cut to expose pale skin to his shoulder. As they watched, the nimble fingers slowly formed into a fist, the thumb tucked safely inside as always. But there was no strength in it and no vein appeared.

"Do we have a squeeze ball?" he asked Tom, who looked in the box and shrugged.

"Let me help," Quinlan said harshly. He took the limp hand, uncurled Murray's fingers and wrapped them around his own. "Come on, kid, give me a squeeze. Pretend you got me by the throat." He tightened his grip in encouragement and Murray squeezed back instinctively. It was still too weak, but the harder Quinlan squeezed, the harder Murray squeezed back.

"Here we go," Jack cried, the first hopeful sound anyone had made since they discovered Murray trapped in the car. "We got a flash." He taped down the needle and plugged in a bag of saline. Tom passed him a second bag and he piggybacked it, squeezing the first one so it ran faster.

"So he's okay?" Quinlan asked, loosening his grip on Murray's hand but not letting go entirely. Not so long as the weak fingers clung to him so helplessly.

"No," Jack said flatly. "He's a country mile from okay. But it's a start."

"What do we do next?"

"We need to start peeling this metal off him. Tom, you want to get inside?"

"Yeah, one second." He was gathering his equipment when another medic ran up and grabbed his shoulder.

"Tommy, we're trying to get all these kids out of the Econoline and we're out of ambulances. I've got a girl with a broken arm that I can take in my squad, but I need another rig for a boy with a broken leg. Can you take him?"

"Gee, Carl, I'd love to, but we're trying to save this guy's life here."

"You think you can?" Carl asked doubtfully.

"Hey, fuck off," Quinlan snapped.

"Yeah, have some tact, Carl. The cop's a friend," Jack seconded. "A guy with a broken leg can wait, can't he? Or get one of the cops to take him in a cruiser."

"It's an open fracture, Jack-o. He needs a medic. Come on, friend or not, you gotta face facts. This guy…"

"Is Murray Bozinsky," Quinlan interrupted. "And if you take off and let him die, I'll make sure everyone in the world hears about it."

"Shit," Carl said, his eyes widening. "The _Bozzer and the Brickbats_ guy?"

"Yeah. Now how about we stop talking and start getting him the hell out of here?"

"All right, but can you make do with a truckman to run the jaws?"

"Yeah, fuck it," Tom shrugged. "I'll take the kid to the hospital and get back here as fast as I can. Lieutenant, can you stay and help out?"

"Whatever you need."

"All right," Jack said efficiently. "You get in the car. I'll pass the Ringer's bags in and you hang onto them. Keep the bags up around his shoulders so it flows free. Go on, we're in a hurry now."

Quinlan ran around to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel. He got as close to Murray as he could without disturbing the electronics and reached over him to take the bags of fluid. They were too awkward to hold so he used his pocket knife to cut a piece of wire from the antenna connection and tie one end to each bag. He hung the wire around Murray's neck, the soft brace protecting his skin so it didn't cut in. He was checking the lines to make sure they weren't kinked when a stranger leaned in and covered them both with a heavy turnout coat.

Quinlan guessed, correctly, that he was the truckman, sent to do the heavy work for their last medic. It infuriated him that Murray only rated one paramedic, and if he didn't make it, Quinlan would scream all the way to Sacramento about funding, training, and plain old disregard for human life. In fact, he might do that anyway. But that was an issue for tomorrow, he decided. Right now his main concern was keeping the coat over Murray's head.

The air compressor started up with a dissonant roar and Quinlan felt the Jimmy vibrate as the jaws made contact. Though he couldn't see it, they were biting into the doorpost first, cutting through it halfway down to disconnect it from the roof. There was a prolonged scream of tortured metal in his ears, and then the compressor was silent.

"You two okay in there?" Jack shouted. "How's the patient?"

"Hanging in."

"Good. We're gonna bust out this windshield now, so keep your heads covered."

The safety glass bowed inward in sections, weighing heavily on Quinlan's shoulder. The sections were lifted away and Jack climbed up on the hood to get a better look. He pulled off the coat, laying it aside on the dash for when they needed it again.

"How's he doing?"

"I don't think he's breathing right," Quinlan said hesitantly. "Maybe there just wasn't enough air under that coat."

"Bill, get me an oxygen tank out of the squad," he yelled to the truckman. The bigger man put down the jaws of life and ran to get the tank.

"Not enough room in here, is there?" Quinlan muttered.

"Not as much as I'd like, that's for sure. You'll just have to do the best you can. Here, cut that sleeve for me and we'll get a pressure real quick."

He took the scissors and sliced Murray's left sleeve from wrist to shoulder with one quick movement, a trick he'd learned somewhere in Asia. Jack handed in the cuff for him to strap on and then lay down on the hood and crawled halfway in so he could reach Murray's elbow with the stethoscope. He inflated the cuff twice before pulling the earpieces and the expression on his face wasn't one of good cheer.

"Lieutenant, I want you to start squeezing those bags, okay? I'm gonna get another one, and see if anyone can run some blood over from the hospital. Any chance you know his type?"

"We ain't that close," he said dryly. But it wasn't just sarcasm. At that moment Ted Quinlan's mouth was so dry, a cracker would have killed him.

"O-neg it is, then. You just squeeze those bags, Lieutenant. I'll be right back." He slithered off the hood and ran to his truck where he could call dispatch on the radio. The truckman showed up with the oxygen tank and passed it in through the hole where the windshield had been. Quinlan put it on the floor by his feet and unlooped enough tubing to put the mask over Murray's face. He'd done this enough times to know the simple things, like how to open the valve and what the pressure should be for a man Murray's size. As soon as the air was flowing, he rose up on his knees and started squeezing the saline bags with both hands.

The first was empty and the second down to the dregs when Jack returned with a fresh one.

"Tom's coming back with the blood," he said, plugging in the new bag. "How's he doing?"

"The same, I think. We gotta get this shit off him. All this metal, it's cutting him to hell." Quinlan's fingers were moving fast as he spoke, untying the wire so he could hook up the new bag.

"I know, but we have to be careful. The last thing we want to do is tear him up worse. Here, get under the coat. We're gonna take the door off next, then the roof. There'll be a break when Tom gets here with the blood, but if you need anything before then, just stick your head out. I'll be watching."

The tow truck rolled up and pulled the Econoline out of the way before hitching up to the pickup and dragging it clear. There was no more danger of flying glass, but Quinlan kept the coat up as the work went on. The closed jaws were forced into the shattered hinges first and opened until they tore free. When Bill moved it to the other side and ripped into the jammed door latch, it gave much more quickly and they were able to pull the door off clean. The compressor shut down again and Jack leaned in to do another assessment.

"Tom just radioed from two minutes out. He still breathing okay?"

"So far as I can tell."

"All right, we're gonna try to get this roof off before he gets here. Squeeze that bag, if you can do it and hang onto the coat at the same time."

"I can." He braced his right arm on the seat back and held the coat over Murray's face while his left hand squeezed the saline bag. Then the compressor roared to life again, grumbling and dissonant, and the jaws began to crush and rend their way through the doorpost behind Murray's head.

Suddenly Murray took a ragged breath, inaudible under the wail of tearing metal. Quinlan wouldn't have known that anything had changed if he also hadn't tried to move. Most of Murray's body was immobilized, but his left arm shifted just enough to elbow Quinlan in the gut and make him drop the coat. The compressor cut off at once and Jack hauled the coat out to do another evaluation. Murray was able to open his eyes just a little, and as soon as he realized where he was, he began to struggle.

"Hey, hold still," Quinlan said, gentle but urgent. "Just hold still. You ain't getting out that way."

"Lieutenant," he whispered, his breath fogging the mask. "What happened?"

"I don't know. My guess would be Allen's driving finally caught up with him."

"Cody? Where…where's Cody?" The blood pressure cuff was inflating around his arm and he winced at the pain without knowing the cause.

"He's at the hospital already. Him and Ryder both. They ain't hurt bad."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. Would I waste my breath lying to you?"

"'m I hurt?"

"Yeah, you're pretty fucked up. But don't worry. These guys are getting you out of here as fast as they can."

"What about you?"

"I'm fine, Bozinsky. I can leave any time I want."

Murray sighed beneath the mask and rolled his eyes, the whites barely visible between swollen lids.

"Why...why're you...?"

"It's my job, kid. Now just hold still and let us work."

Tom appeared at the window and plugged in the plasma bag. Quinlan took it, tied it to the wire, and gave it a long squeeze.

"I want out," Murray whispered.

"I know. They're cutting the truck apart and you'll be out soon."

"Lieutenant, can I—I need…"

"You need what? Ask fast so we can get back to it."

"Pain. It hurts, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, I bet it does," he said seriously. "What about it, Jack? Can you do anything for him?"

"Sorry. As long as he's been out, he may have a head injury. And painkillers could drop his blood pressure," he added, "which is already…" A dip of his head indicated the rest of the sentence, _in the basement_. Quinlan nodded back, knowing from Murray's random eye movements that he wasn't really seeing them. "Just do the best you can for him, okay, Lieutenant? He's your friend. Just hold onto him and keep him calm."

Quinlan didn't answer. It seemed like a bad time to mention that Murray wasn't his friend.

"Did you hear that, kid? You can't have anything yet, but you're gonna be out of here in no time. It'll be loud, though. They're using the jaws of life right by your head, so you have to hold still."

"Cody won't like that," he said vaguely and closed his eyes again.

"He ain't gonna mind. I promise."

"Lieutenant, we need to get back to cutting. You want to stay with him or should we send Tom in?"

He hesitated for an endless time, balanced on a fence between want and right that seemed very thin, and longer than he could see. On the one side, there was freedom from this cramped, noisy, gasoline stinking shell of a dead vehicle and far away from the needs of a broken man who would probably never be his friend no matter how this came out. But on the other was familiarity of a kind that seemed to be comforting for the victim in his charge. For whatever reason, Murray was responding to him as if they _were_ friends, and it would be professionally irresponsible to abandon him now.

Though it seemed to take forever, he actually made the decision in a split second.

"I'll stay. And hurry it up. He's fading on me."

The compressor came alive with a blatting roar, like the sound of jake brakes on the trucks that he sometimes wrote tickets for. Murray twitched but Quinlan didn't think he was conscious anymore. Hopefully it was his low blood pressure that put him out rather than the excruciating pain, but Quinlan was willing to take this gift horse at face value and not open its mouth for too close a look. Then the jaws were working again, crushing the metal doorpost beside his seat, and Murray, suddenly conscious, went rigid with fear. Under the cover of the heavy coat, surrounded by that furious roar, Quinlan could neither see his wide eyes nor hear his high, breathless scream. But he felt the stiffened spine and the sudden scrambling of hands that didn't bode well for the IV. Swiftly, he let go the saline bag and grabbed Murray's right arm, holding it still while pinning his left arm with his body.

"Don't move," he ordered, barely loud enough to be heard. The last thing he wanted to do was yell and scare him. "You're okay, just don't move." He swallowed hard and added, "I ain't leaving you. You're safe, I promise. I'll stay right here and make sure of it."

He felt Murray's head move, his slender neck straining against the brace, and carefully worked the crook of his elbow down around it.

"Just sit still, kid. I—I know it's scary, but you'll be okay. You hear me?"

There was another small movement of his head and then he relaxed, sliding sideways against Quinlan's body as far as the wreckage would allow. Quinlan felt his wrist for a pulse and, finding none, moved his hand to the base of Murray's throat to feel him breathe. The movement of the sternum was shallow but steady and the Lieutenant was reassured. But he kept his hand there, counting the breaths, as the pneumatic jaws sheared through the roof overhead.

In another kind of truck, one like the F-150 that sat snarling at them with its broken grille ten feet away, it would have been a simple matter of biting through the doorposts and lifting off the roof. But the Jimmy was a solid body design, a weird hybrid of pickup and van, and the roof had to be cut all the way across to free it.

Quinlan made sure the coat covered Murray completely, his right hand digging into the unkempt hair to keep him from raising his head as the jaws passed by. That long cut was the most arduous part of the process so far, but Murray didn't know it. He was out again and not even the oxygen or the hastily squeezed bag of plasma could bring him around this time. Quinlan alternated between rushing the bag and counting breaths with the flat of his hand, satisfied that Murray was getting enough air, but still overwhelmingly relieved when the firefighters got through the driver's side doorposts and the roof came off at last.

Jack leapt up on the hood again and pulled the coat away. Quinlan sucked fresh air as if he'd been holding his breath all that time, but he didn't move away and he didn't let go.

"You doing okay, Lieutenant?" he asked, even as he began inflating the BP cuff again.

"I'm fine. Got a little stuffy under there, but Bozinsky's still breathing. Can we get him out of here now?"

"Just as soon as we get this stuff out of the way. Shit's jammed in pretty tight." He listened for a few seconds, then deflated the cuff and slid off the hood. "Bill, get the chains. We gotta pull the dash."

Jack started the compressor and opened the jaws as wide as they'd go while the truckman fetched lengths of heavy chain equipped with massive hooks. He crawled under the front end of the Jimmy and attached one to the axle, then jammed the other hook into the crumpled cowling above the hood, seating it firmly in the frame. The ends of both chains fastened to the points of the jaws, and when the compressor forced them closed again, the dashboard was dragged inexorably toward the axle, in spite of all the metal in between.

Murray groaned when the stress lessened and the metal debris shifted in his lap. Tom cut the compressor and stood out of the way while Bill and Jack carefully lifted out the components and dropped them in the street. Murray went on groaning with every jostling touch, trying to flinch away from the pain, but Quinlan held firm and didn't let him move. The more weight they removed, the faster the blood flowed, and as soon as he was free, Jack unplugged the empty saline bag and replaced it with a second bag of plasma.

"All right, let's move him out. Bill, get us a gurney. I'll take his head; Tom, you grab his legs, _carefully_ ; and Lieutenant, you bring the oxygen. Just slide out after him and stay close."

Quinlan picked up the bottle and unlooped more tubing, giving Murray a long leash. The paramedics were as careful as fathers handling their own injured child, but still Murray groaned, his eyes fluttering open, filled with panic and pain. He tried to speak but they couldn't understand him through the mask. When Quinlan caught up to him, he tucked the bottle under Murray's arm and, after the very slightest hesitation, picked up his hand again. Tom cut the wire around Murray's neck and hung the bags, then opened his bloodied shirt and applied pressure dressings to the gouges in his chest and stomach while Jack sliced up his pants legs and bandaged his thighs.

Their patient moaned and sobbed through it all, half-conscious now and torn between coming up to fight and sinking back down into the dark where nothing hurt. But even in his foggy and confused state, the dark scared him. He was sure that falling back into it would mean never coming into the light again. He felt a hand in his, warm and strong and sure, and clung to it as the one thing that anchored him to life and light. A second hand touched his forehead, smoothing back his sweaty hair, and he tried to raise his head up into it. The pressure increased and he submitted with a helpless whimper.

"Hey, hey, Murray, be still," came a gentle voice. It was one he knew, or almost knew, but it didn't sound right. He couldn't be sure who it was, and that frightened him, too.

"Help—help me," he whispered. "Please."

"I am. Everyone's helping you, kid. All you gotta do is hang on, okay? Just keep hanging on."

"Ted? Lieutenant? Is that you?"

"It's me. You're gonna be okay now. Don't you worry."

"Where am I? Where're Cody and Nick?"

"They're at the hospital already. They ain't hurt bad, though. You'll see 'em soon."

"I'm scared, Lieutenant. Don't let go. Please."

"I won't. I won't let go," he said, squeezing the thin, cold hand. It was only just sinking in that Murray had called him by his first name a few seconds ago. He hadn't been entirely certain until now that the geek even _knew_ his name.

"All right, we're ready to roll," Jack announced. "Do we have an ambulance?"

"One minute out," Tom answered. "You want to ride with him? See it through?"

"Might as well," Jack shrugged. "Lieutenant, was he talking just now?"

"Yeah, but he's not oriented. Doesn't seem to know what's going on. Where the hell are all the ambulances?"

"KHG was overwhelmed. They're taking people all over, and responding to the cannery fire. This just isn't a good day to get hurt."

"Ted? Ted, I'm scared," Murray whispered. "Please, it hurts."

"I know," he said, feeling as helpless as Murray looked. "I know it hurts, but it'll be all right soon."

"'m scared," he said once more and closed his eyes.

"Let's hang another bag of Ringer's," Jack said, already reaching for the drug box. He had just enough time to start another large bore IV, giving silent thanks that the fluid had enlarged Murray's veins, before the ambulance arrived.

"Lieutenant, you want to follow us?"

"I'd like to ride along, if you have room. He don't seem to want to let go."

"Yeah, okay. Watch that air bottle for me. Make sure it doesn't fall." The ambulance pulled up and Tom helped Jack load the gurney. There were two medics on board already, in addition to the driver, and one volunteered to ride up front so Quinlan could have his spot. With the other two caring for Murray, Ted was free to just hold his hand and watch, aware of what he was doing, but somehow not aware that it was strange.

"Must be a close friend," the new medic remarked as he pried Murray's eyes open and checked his pupils.

"Actually, the guy hates my guts. But he grabbed onto me and I can't let go 'til he does. Sounds stupid, I guess, but cops are supposed to help people, right?" he asked with a forced laugh.

"Tell me about it," the ambulance attendant said, laughing much more sincerely. "I get all kinds of drunks and crazies and freaked out women hanging on me, like I don't have a job to do."

"Well, this _is_ my job," Quinlan replied shortly. "And he ain't crazy or drunk, just scared of dying alone in the street. You probably would be, too."

"Back off, Len. He's seen a lot of shit today," Jack said quietly. "And if you don't shut up, I'll tell him about that one last week that made you cry."

***

Quinlan double-checked the room number, looked at his watch, ran his hand through his hair, and checked the number again. It was after five and he wanted to go home. Instead he pushed the door open and strode in with something of his normal swagger.

There were two beds in the room and Murray lay in the one nearest the door, looking small and pale under the thin blanket. His eyes were closed and he breathed slow and regular, the respiration of a man in a peaceful sleep.

Cody was in the other bed, sitting up and talking to Nick, who sat in a wheelchair between the beds. Cody had an angry bruise on his head and a plaster on his broken nose, his left arm bandaged and in a sling, while Nick looked fine, except for an immobilizer on his right arm. He'd held onto Cody's seat so hard that the force of the impact had wrenched his shoulder half out of its socket, although he hadn't felt it for some time. He had torn muscles in his left shoulder as well, so by the time they went home, Cody would be the strong one though he didn't look like it now.

"Hey, Lieutenant Quinlan," Cody said with feigned cheerfulness. "What brings you by?"

Nick strained to look back over his shoulder, unable to turn the chair.

"Just wanted to see how you boys were doing. Bozinsky been awake yet?"

"Off and on," Nick said. "They brought him in three or four hours ago and he's talked to us a little. He's in a lot of pain, though. It's better if he just sleeps."

"Does he remember what happened?"

"Not really. So far all he remembers is seeing the truck and hearing the crash. He couldn't tell us what happened after we left."

"Huh. Just as well, I guess. It was pretty bad."

"You want to tell us about it?" Cody asked gently. "Is there anything we need to know?"

"Nothing important." He went to Murray's side and looked down on him, resting his forearms on the bed rail. Nick and Cody exchanged a look that asked and answered the question: _"What do we do now?" "Nothing. Wait and see."_

Quinlan looked at him for a long time, not moving or speaking, until Murray opened his eyes, as if in response to a psychic demand.

"Lieutenant," he murmured hoarsely. "What are you doing here?"

"I—uh—just came by to see how you're doing. That was a hell of a wreck this morning."

"I don't really remember. Were you there?"

"Was—yeah, I was there." He cleared his throat and straightened up, picking restlessly at his fingernails. "You—uh—don't remember anything?"

"Just the noise. The sound of the metal tearing—it went on forever. Are we in trouble? Do I need to give a statement? Because I'm awfully tired."

"No, you ain't in trouble. Like I said, I just wanted to see how you pea-brains made out."

"Oh. Thank you, Lieutenant. That was very thoughtful of you," he mumbled, already fading out again.

"Yeah, real thoughtful," Nick said mockingly.

"Shut up, Ryder. I'm outta here anyway. I got better things to do than stare at the three of you all night."

Nick gave him a smirk that was equal to any Quinlan had ever turned on him, and Cody just looked confused. They were waiting for an answer, but there was none. At least none that mattered. He took one last look at the sleeping man whose hand he had held, whose friend he had been, whose life he had helped to save, and turned away. The other two called goodbye as he walked out the door, but Quinlan didn't look back.


End file.
